


The road, and

by lbmisscharlie



Category: Scott & Bailey
Genre: F/F, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3573251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gill pushes open the garden gate to see that the car Julie’s leaning against is not her familiar grey Peugeot, but a very tiny and very red sports car, top folded back and tucked away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The road, and

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kathryne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathryne/gifts).



Gill checks her pockets; checks again. Keys, badge, phone. She zips up her jacket. She doesn’t rub her neck.

She hasn’t been running since – she hasn’t been out in a while. Long enough that her calves feel tight, her shoes too snug. The sunlight streams in as she pushes the door open, warm and clear and all the rarer for both. The door closes firmly behind her – locks – knob firm in her hand, and she blinks, eyes adjusting.

“Hiya, slap.” It’s a deep, instinctual familiarity that keeps Gill from starting. Framed in the uprights of the front garden gate, Julie tips her head to one side. Her hair, nearly pale in the bright light, brushes her shoulder. Gill jogs down the steps, up the path.

“Fancy a run?” 

“Nah. I had a different thought.” Gill pushes open the garden gate to see that the car Julie’s leaning against is not her familiar grey Peugeot, but a very tiny and very red sports car, top folded back and tucked away. 

Gill rocks back on her heels, gives a low whistle. “You going through a mid-life crisis? Don’t tell me you’ve started sleeping with your secretary.” 

“Alexander? Not my type.” Julie pushes away from the car. Gill’s assumed she’s stopped by on her way to work – to check in; always fussing – but she’s wearing a soft blue sweater with a very deep vee-neck and – perish the thought – jeans. 

“Glad to hear it,” Gill says. She hasn’t stepped forward yet, so Julie does, steps until she’s a foot away, eyes crinkled against the sunshine and no makeup on and smile stretched wide. 

“Just woke up this morning and fancied a drive.” She lifts the car keys up, lets them jangle against her palm, keyring looped around her finger. “Do you want to come?” Gill blinks. 

“A drive?” Julie hums. “Anywhere in particular?” 

Julie shrugs, a little jerk of her shoulders. It’s less impressive under the soft wool of her sweater than it would be under the crisp oxfords she favors at work. She always leaves the collars open, so she’s nothing but an expanse of broad shoulder and sharp collarbone. “Paris? Or Aberdeen, if you’d like to head north. Or, I hear tell there are actual beaches in this country, though that might just be a vicious rumor.”

Gill opens her mouth, closes it. She doesn’t say _I can’t just leave,_ because she’s on leave for another two weeks and the corners of the city still leave her throat tight and aching. And Julie’s standing there, squinting against the sun, looking soft. 

“Yeah, alright,” she says, and watches Julie’s smile break wide.


End file.
